“Sorry, Kyle. Might be kind of tough. I need to find out if she’s been dating anybody. Go through her room, talk to friends.”
“You think that’s who it is?”
“I don’t know. We have to look at every possibility.”
Butler gave a wan smile. “Sure. I’ll do it. It’s just a stupid dream I had anyway, us getting back together. It’s not going to happen.” The young man turned and started up the hill. Then he stopped and returned. He shook Shaw’s hand. “I’m sorry, man. I didn’t mean to go all Narcos on you. You know?”
“Not a worry.”
He watched Butler hike back toward the far entrance.
On his mission.
His futile mission.
From his interview with her father and examination of her room, Shaw didn’t believe that Sophie was seeing anyone, not seriously, much less anyone who might have kidnapped her. But it was important for the poor kid to be elsewhere when Shaw discovered what he was now sure he’d find: Sophie Mulliner’s body.
Shaw was driving along winding Tamyen Road, having left San Miguel Park behind.
A serial kidnapper stashing his victims in a dungeon for any length of time wasn’t an impossible likelihood. It did seem rare enough, though, that he focused on a more realistic fate: that Sophie’d been the victim of a sexual sociopath. In Shaw’s experience, the majority of rapists might be serial actors, but almost always with multiple victims. The rapist’s inclination was to kill and move on.
This meant Sophie’s corpse lay somewhere nearby. X was clearly not stupid—the tracker on her bike, the obscuring clothing, the selection of a good attack zone. He wouldn’t drive any distance with a body in his trunk. There might be an accident or traffic violation or a checkpoint. He’d do what he wanted, near San Miguel Park, and flee. In this southwest portion of San Francisco Bay were acres and acres of wet, sandy earth soft enough to dig a quick, shallow grave. But the area was open, with good visibility for hundreds and hundreds of yards; X would want his privacy.
Shaw came to a large, abandoned self-storage operation of about a hundred compartments. The facility was in the middle of an expanse of weeds and sandy ground. He parked and noted that the gap in the chain-link gate was easily wide enough for two people to slip through. He did so himself and began walking up and down the aisles. It was an easy place to search because the paneled overhead doors to the units had been removed and lay in a rust-festering pile behind one of the buildings, like the wings of huge roaches. Maybe this was done for safety’s sake, the way refrigerator doors are removed upon discarding so a child can’t get trapped inside. Whatever the reason, this practice made it simple to see that Sophie’s body wasn’t here.
Soon the Malibu was cruising again.
He saw a feral dog tugging something from the ground about thirty feet away. Something red and white.
Blood and bone?
Shaw braked fast and climbed out of the Chevy. The dog wasn’t a big creature, maybe forty or fifty pounds and rib-skinny. Shaw approached slowly, keeping a steady pace.
Never, ever startle an animal …
The creature moved toward him with its black eyes narrowed. One fang was missing, which gave it an ominous look. Shaw avoided eye contact and continued forward without hesitating.
Until he was able to see what the dog was tugging up.
A Kentucky Fried Chicken bucket.
He left the scrawny thing to its illusory dinner and returned to the car.
Tamyen Road made a long loop past more marshes and fields, and with San Francisco Bay to his left he continued south.
The cracked and bleached asphalt led him to a row of trees and brush, behind which was a large industrial facility, seemingly closed for decades.
An eight-foot-high chain-link fence encircled the weed-choked facility. There were three gates, about thirty yards apart. Shaw pulled up to what seemed to be the main one. He counted five—no, six—dilapidated structures, marred with peeling beige paint and rust, sprouting pipes and tubing and wires. Some walls bore uninspired graffiti. The outlying buildings were one-story. In the center was an ominous, towering box, with a footprint of about a hundred by two hundred feet; it was five stories high and above it soared a metal smokestack, twenty feet in diameter at the base, tapering slightly as it rose.
The grounds abutted the Bay and the skeleton of a wide pier jutted fifty yards into the gently rocking water. Maybe maritime equipment had been fabricated here.
Shaw edged the car off the driveway. There was nowhere to hide the vehicle completely, so he parked on the far side of a stand of foliage. Difficult to see from the road. Why risk a run-in with local cops for violating the old yet unambiguous NO TRESPASSING signs? Shaw was mindful too of the individual twenty minutes ago possibly surveilling him from the ridge above San Miguel Park. Person X, he might as well assume. He placed his computer bag and the bloody rock in the trunk. He scanned the road, the forest on the other side of it, the grounds here. He saw no one. He believed that a car had driven through the main gate at some point in the recent past. The grounds were tall grass and bent in a way that suggested a vehicle’s transit.
Shaw walked to the gate, which was secured by a piece of chain and a lock. He wasn’t looking forward to scaling the fence. It was topped with the upward-pointed snipped-off ends of the links, not as dangerous as razor wire but sharp enough to draw blood.
He wondered if there was any give to the two panels of this gate, as there had been at the self-storage operation. Shaw tugged. The two sides parted only a few inches. He took hold of the large padlock to get a better grip. He pulled hard and it opened.
The lock was one of those models without keys; instead they have numbered dials on the bottom. The shank had been pushed in. Whoever had done it had not spun the dials to relock the mechanism. Two things intrigued Shaw. First, the lock was new. Second, the code was not the default—usually 0-0-0-0 or 1-2-3-4—but, he could see by looking at the dials, 7-4-9-9. Which meant someone had been using it to secure the gate and had neglected to lock it the most recent time he had been here.
Why? Maybe the laziness of a security guard?
Or because the visitor had entered recently, knowing he’d be leaving soon.
Which meant that perhaps he was still here.
Call Wiley?
Not yet.
He’d have to give the detective something concrete.
He opened the gate, stepped inside and replaced the lock as it had been. He then walked quickly over the weed-filled driveway for twenty yards to the first building—a small guardhouse. He glanced in. Empty. He scanned two other nearby buildings, Warehouse 3 and Warehouse 4.
Keeping low, Shaw moved to the closest of these, eyes scanning the vista, noting the vantage
